


Through A Glass Darkly

by Lookfar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7209476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookfar/pseuds/Lookfar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Hermione Granger is surprised to discover that her own former professor is not dead after all. But it is up to her to bring him all the way to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through A Glass Darkly

Warnings for sacrilege, birth imagery and gore.

Professor Hermione Granger set a stack of books on the Potions office table and shook out her arms. This was only half her gleanings from the Restricted Section, but would do for getting on with. Although she now knew more Potions, probably, than the last two professors combined, continued study helped keep her cheerful.

“Mum?” The door cracked open and a mass of red, curly hair appeared, her daughter’s sweet face in its midst. “Are you coming to dinner?” 

“No, darling, I’ll get some tea and a sandwich later,” she answered. “You go on and sit with your friends.” 

The rest of Rose slid into the room. She examined the top book in the pile.

“What are you reading?” she asked, “You don’t really need to learn more Potions. You’ve enough to teach us, unless you get another one like you.” 

“Well, I just - it’s good to be really prepared. And it’s interesting. This one - it’s a history of Wolfsbane and the Wolfsbane potion. You know, Damocles Belby almost missed the primary use of Wolfsbane because he was looking for a wolf _repellent_. Can you imagine? Where would we be without it?”

“Where indeed,” Rose replied without interest, circling the work table. “How are things in the Museum?”

The Museum was what Rose called the small shelf of things Hermione had been unable to discard when she reorganized the office. The Potions office that Hermione had inherited was alarming in its murky intricacy - decipherable by Professor Snape and possibly Professor Slughorn, but no one else. Now the ingredients stood in orderly, labeled rows, illuminated by purpose-designed lamps, and the work table was topped with hygienic white marble; she had created a more scientific atmosphere, something like her parents’ dental offices. But the low shelf of amphorae and carved caskets and Professor Snape’s own set of chopping knives and block seemed to gather a small bit of the remaining darkness about them, and Rose always stopped there to ponder. She examined her face in the old, foxed glass on the wall, then bent to address the mortar and pestle.

“Hellooo, Professor Snape,” Rose said.

“You wouldn’t have liked him,” Hermione said. “None of us did.”

“But if you knew then what you know now?” Rose asked, looking over her shoulder.

Hermione shook her head sadly. 

“He was awful. He was mean and abusive. I respect him now - very much - for what he did. That’s why we told you the story. But he wasn’t likable.”

“I would like him,” Rose said stoutly. “I would know that he was a secret hero. I would see it.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione said kindly. For some reason it occurred to her that Severus Snape had once been someone’s child, that his mother must have loved him. “It’s - I do wish sometimes that I could thank him. But - “ she brushed some imaginary dust from the marble, “it can’t be helped. Now, Rosy-posy, go get your dinner. And check on Hugo while you’re there.”

“I could stay here and keep you company,” said Rose. “Do you want me to bring my books and we can read together?”

“Really, Rose, I’m fine,” she answered a bit more sharply. “Go on now. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Okay,” Rose said, “Have it your way, Miss Tea and a Sandwich.”

There had been some jockeying between herself and Rose when she took the job, but not of the get-out-of-my-life variety. Rose seemed to feel responsible for her divorced mother’s happiness and Hermione was at pains to shoo her back to the normal enjoyments of a sixteen-year-old girl. Perhaps Rose had been unduly alarmed by the intensity with which Hermione had prepared herself for teaching, but that period was over.

Hermione blew her a kiss and turned pointedly toward her books, illuminating her reading lamp with a flick of her wand. 

It was late when she stretched and closed the second book. The stiffness in her back told her she’d been at it longer than she’d intended. She mentally reprimanded herself: during the divorce she’d made herself nearly ill with overwork, trying to be a superior Ministry employee, a first-rate mother and friend, to keep the house in order and the children safe, emotionally healthy and optimally nourished. She had accepted the position at Hogwarts in hopes of a more balanced life, and here she was, escaping into overwork again.

The spotty glass on the wall showed her a pale, thin face with dark smudges under the eyes. She had to take better care of herself. If she went right to her chambers she could catch six hours of sleep before getting up to review lesson plans. She placed the books in a neat stack on a shelf. 

Then she sat again. 

There were no dark corners anymore, but late at night, even this close to the end of the year, the room felt haunted. This was a psychological phenomenon, of course: she associated the office with the traumas of her last school year. The terrible, long search for horcruxes, the constant fear of annihilation, the growing anticipation of Harry’s death, the violation of Hogwarts and the corpses lined up on the floor of the Great Hall - the three friends had put those firmly behind and turned their faces toward life, but had it been so simple as making up their minds? She wondered if her marriage had been a casualty of that choice, if that youthful first love had simply been unequal to the task of keeping it all in the past.

There were no ghosts in the Potions office, only sadness and disquiet. With a pang, Hermione wished that she had allowed Rose to stay, beautiful, unmarked Rose, full of vitality and hope. Then she shook herself and left the room, locking the door behind her.

In the morning, even the sliver of light from the small, high windows was enough to banish her melancholy mood. She had set her tea down on the work table and opened the Gryffindor section of her lesson plan notebook when the stack of library books caught her eye. She had arranged them in order of pertinence to her subject, and _A Complete History of Wolfsbane_ should have been on top. It had been had been replaced by the slender journal _Issues in Contemporary Chronomancy_ , which she had put at the bottom to read for pleasure. She doubted that she misremembered. Peeves would have done a lot of damage, not just moved a book, but she was sure of how she had left them.

Class began in forty-five minutes, so she filed the incident under “Continued Observation” in her mind and buckled down to review a paper on Best Pedagogical Practices in Potions Technique. Her younger Gryffindors were very dedicated, but their chopping was slapdash at best and dangerous at worst; she didn’t want another finger-severing incident. She remembered very well the constant risk of explosion or caustic burn that hovered over her own Potions education and she felt that this was not conducive to natural learning. How Professor Snape had stood the tension was beyond her understanding.

The class passed without incident. She paired the children off and charged them with evaluating each other’s knife and wand handling for safety, comparing them to the diagrams she projected on the wall, and finished with a brief lecture on cauldron use. It might not have been the most interesting class, but she felt satisfied that it would pay off in decreased injuries for the remainder of the semester. 

Hugo lingered when the other students had moved on. 

“Darling, don’t be late for your next class,” she admonished. He gave her a stern look. “Oh, Hugo, I can call you ‘darling’ when there’s no one else in the room, can’t I? I promise you, I checked before I said it.”

He smiled, his reprimanding face a momentary mask that melted away to reveal a goofy wash of adoration. He looked very much like Ron, with his floppy red fringe and expressive mug. Rose’s love for her was richly ambivalent, but Hugo loved her like a spaniel, completely and devotedly, and it frightened her sometimes.

“Are you keeping up with your studies?” she asked. “Don’t put anything off! You need to work every night and keep up, now that you’re at school.”

“Right, Mum. Nothing’s overdue. Thomas and I are going to write our Charms essays tonight.”

“All in one night? Hugo, it would be much better if you had done it yesterday or the day before and you could revise tonight.”

“I agree, Mum,” he said mildly, “That would have been better. But that’s not what happened, right? Don’t worry. We’ll do okay.”

“I -” Hermione stopped herself. This had been just one of the many issues that she and Ron had disagreed on, but he was not here to argue it with, so she sent Hugo on with a wave.

The last class of the day was a combined Slytherin-Gryffindor advanced Potions practicum and although the conflicts were not as strenuous as she remembered from her own school days, Hermione found this group more challenging than her others. It was a relief to bid them good afternoon and escape into the office for a cup of tea.

The sun had fallen below the level of the window sills and the room was dim. She flicked on the lamps and examined the stack of library books, but they remained unchanged. After a brief rest, she would have time to try out a procedure she hoped to add to the advanced class. But first, tea. She heated the kettle with her wand - no house-elf for her - and took the china pot from her shelf of personal items. While the tea steeped, she leafed through _Issues in Contemporary Chronomancy_. There was an interesting paper on anemia and the excessive use of Time-Turners and another on the theoretical use of pensieves in time travel. Wondering if she had been anemic during the Time Turner year, she flipped to that article, absently pouring the tea into her kneazel mug.

She had finished the paper, the following one (a survey of magical time-manipulation objects, from enchanted gold watches to engrossing books) and the whole pot of tea, and was about to begin work on a potion to increase empathy. 

This had never been part of the Advanced Potions curriculum because the chief ingredient, Conweed Pod, was expensive and hard to obtain. She was curious to see if the mild effects of Empathy Potion would reduce the level of competitive aggression in the Gryffindor-Slytherin class and she had found a source of student-grade Conweed Pods that could be covered within the budget for special projects. If the majority could brew it successfully, it would cap off the Advanced Potions year very nicely.

She cleared the tea things and opened the knife drawer in the work table, bringing out her favorite blade and her small block. She cleaned her hands with a spell and _Accioed_ the Conweed Pod in its little box. It was like a nutmeg, a pleasing ovoid of brown woody material. According to the directions in _Flamby’s Compendium of Advanced Potions_ it could be carefully split with a sharp knife and the fibrous interior scraped out with a curette. 

A shuffling and giggling sounded from outside the office door, with “Knock!” and “No, you knock!” emerging from the hubbub. 

“Oh, just come in!” she called.

It was Rose and Hugo together, jamming the doorway as they tried to beat each other inside. 

“Stop!”

“No, you should go second -”

“But you weren’t going!”

“You got in my way.” Rose managed to free herself from the jam and pop through, laughing, her red curls flying. Their good humor made Hermione smile. She was glad that they had each other.

“Mum, we are arresting you,” Hugo declared. 

“Will you come quietly, or do we need to use force?” Rose demanded.

“Aren’t you supposed to charge me with a crime?” said Hermione.

“Oh,” said Hugo. Hermione observed that the shirt collar peeking from under his robes was the same one she had seen yesterday. “It’s, um - what’s the crime, Rosy?”

“Failure to Attend Dinner,” said Rose. “Aggravated Failure to Attend Dinner and also Substituting Sandwiches for Dinner in the First Degree.”

“I was meaning to come to dinner tonight,” Hermione protested.

“Then you may consider that we have arrived to escort you,” said Rose, while Hugo leaned meaningfully into her face with a comical expression that was meant to be threatening.

“I accept your invitation to dinner with pleasure,” said Hermione, casting only a brief, regretful glance at the work table. She nestled the pod back into its box and set the knife parallel to the chopping block.

“Come on, Mum, it’s time _now_ ,” said Hugo.

“All right, all right.” The children stood back and let her through first, as if they feared she’d push them out and close herself in. She locked the door behind them.

“It’s not as bad as you are making out,” Hermione said as they walked down the dungeon corridor.

It was good to get out of the dungeons and socialize a bit at dinner. She enjoyed talking to Filius Flitwick, who seemed entirely different to her from an adult’s point of view. The children sat with their houses, but she caught their eyes now and again; perhaps, being children of divorce, they would never be as secure as once they had. Was there something she could do to make it up to them? 

She should have gone to her rooms, done a little light reading and perhaps some yoga and gone to bed. Tomorrow was Saturday, but she had lost the ability to sleep late in the mornings. Instead, she snuck down to the Potions office, feeling like a student out of bed. She only wanted to complete the first three steps of the potion. It was mainly curiosity about the Conweed Pod; what did that fibrous interior look like?

She closed the door quietly, though the corridor was deserted. Her materials were as she’d left them. A Number Two cauldron was big enough to accept the pod scrapings, so she set this on the table, along with the necessary vial of papyrus dust and the bottle of coffee distillate. 

The pod was a bit problematical; it seemed very hard and rather unstable on the block. She should probably have some way to keep it still - put it in a vise? - but she was a bit impatient so she gave it a try, aligning the knife along the long axis.

She stood and bore down hard on the knife, her free palm adding pressure on the back of the blade. For a moment it seemed as if the pod would yield, then it flew out from under and struck her sharply in the eye.

“Ow! Damn!” she said, clapping her hand over her face and looking about for the pod. It had ricocheted off the wall and lay spinning on the flagstones in the corner. Keeping her eye covered, she shuffled over, knelt and set it carefully on the work table.

Her eye throbbed. Surely she hadn’t done any damage to the cornea; it was just a smack on the lid. She turned the lamps up and felt her way to the looking glass, moving her hand away to search for signs of injury.

A pair of black eyes, alight with intelligence, peered back at her.

Hermione gasped and stumbled backward, simultaneously bringing her wand up and casting a Revealing spell. There was a swishing sound, then silence. When she looked again, there was only her own face, one eye red and tearing, but nothing more.

She wasn’t seeing things. She had never been prone to hallucinations or excessive imagination and she wasn’t starting now. She pressed her hand against her weeping eye and spoke.

“Who are you?”

Silence.

The misplaced book. The eyes in the glass. She looked around the room for more clues, and her gaze fell on the knife and block. The knife she had been using was not her own. It was from the Museum.

She had been using Professor Snape’s knife. Oh, God. 

Hermione sat heavily on her stool and stared at the work table.

It was Professor Snape; it had to be. He was here somewhere, moving her books, putting his knife in her hand. In October there had been finger marks in the dust on the edges of the shelves. She had asked the house-elves to clean more carefully. Then there was a time - in the dead of winter, she couldn’t remember when - that she’d found a black button in her kneazle mug, but she’d put it down to Rose or Hugo playing a prank. 

Well, then. She took a sip of cold tea and squared her shoulders. Coming around the table, she faced the old looking glass and observed it quietly. 

It was round, about twelve inches in diameter and badly foxed, in a battered, carved, oval frame - rather like an eye on its side, she mused. On inspection only her own face appeared in the glass, somewhat to her relief. 

“Professor Snape,” she called quietly. “Professor Snape, are you here?”

Feeling a bit foolish and also faintly daring, she called again.

“Severus Snape, are you here? It’s Hermione Granger.”

Something was happening on the silvered surface, something very small. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes.

A vertical line drew itself slowly on the glass, stopping when it was half an inch long. Was it “I?” Another line descended on a diagonal. Was it “A?” Laboriously, a third stroke moved vertically upward and stopped.

 

_N_

There was a pause in which Hermione heard only her own shallow breaths. Then a crooked circle drew itself slowly beside the N. 

_N-o._

Was it _not_ Professor Snape but someone else? Another letter was forming. Vertical. Horizontal. 

_T_

“Go on,” she whispered.

_T-u-r-b-a-n._

No turban. She could hear it in his dour, dismissive voice and her eyes, surprisingly, welled up. He needed to come back, but not as Voldemort had. 

“Okay,” she said softly. “No turban. No unicorn blood. We’ll find a way. Is it you, Professor Snape?”

_Y._

She waited a few minutes but there was no more.

It was the middle of the night but Hermione felt completely refreshed and eager to begin. She needed to think. 

Had Professor Snape been watching her this whole year? Had he been present in the Potions office for over twenty-five years? Why hadn’t Professors Slughorn or Antimony noticed him? Had he chosen not to communicate, or had he only just now been able?

If he had been watching her, Hermione regretted all the times she’d adjusted her knickers or given her teeth a quick flossing. 

From the finger marks to the button to the book to the knife. He had been getting stronger. How?

Snape was alive. Or, not alive but potentially alive? She supposed it could be a trick, some other being pretending to be Professor Snape. If it were Snape, that would explain the lack of a headmaster’s portrait: not for the illegitimacy of his tenure, but because he simply hadn’t died. Thank goodness she hadn’t discarded the looking glass when she renovated the office.

Suddenly she felt exhausted and shaky. There was so much to consider and so much at stake. She mustn’t move too fast or trust too soon, but - if he had survived! She put out the lamps and moved to the door, but couldn’t bring herself to go without a goodbye.

“I’ll be back in the morning.”

~oo00oo~

Hermione awoke with a Christmassy feeling. There was a treat, or a riddle to be solved, some interesting work to do. She had been dreaming just before opening her eyes - a tattered black flag, snapping in the wind, but for some reason it filled her with happiness.

Then she remembered. She lay in the blankety cocoon, listing the items she would have to consider. 

1\. How can I be sure this is Professor Snape? Could this be a dangerous being of some other kind?

2\. Who needs to be told about this? Should the Headmaster be informed?

3\. Where is Professor Snape, if this is he? In what form is he preserving himself? How can he be brought into this world?

She realized that this could be a highly dangerous pursuit. She thought of Tom Riddle’s book. What was it that Arthur had said? "Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain." Perhaps the mirror was simply a puppet with who-knows-what behind it. 

Up and dressed, with a piece of toast in her hand, Hermione unlocked the office door and stood for a moment, surveying the room for inspiration. 

_Issues in Contemporary Chronomancy_ was lying on the work table. This time she was not surprised. 

“Good morning,” she said, adopting a stern tone. “I see you’ve left me some reading. But first, I hope you will forgive my natural caution. I’d like to have proof that you are in fact Professor Severus Snape.”

The line that appeared on the blotchy surface of the glass was squiggly, like something made of wire.

_P._

“I beg your pardon?”

_P-r-c-d._

“Proceed. Correct?”

_Y_

“I’ve given this some thought and I want to ask you a few questions. First, there’s something I think only you might know.” She took a deep breath; this personal inquiry might provoke someone like Professor Snape to rage. “I found something in Sirius Black’s bedroom. It was something that you had touched, something important to you. What was it?”

There was a long pause and Hermione thought that he might have left. Then the letters began to appear slowly.

_L-tt-r_

_f-r-m L-i-l-y._

_P-h-o-t-o_

_f_

_L-il-y._

Hermione nodded, and smiled despite herself.

“A letter from Lily and a photo of Lily?”

_½ lter ½ phto_

The writing was getting smaller. Damn! 

“One more,” she said, “How did Harry find the Sword of Gryffindor in the Forest of Dean?”

_m._

_m p-a-tr-n-us._

“Your Patronus.”

_d-o-e._

“A doe. Yes.” She grinned. “It is you. Hello, Professor Snape. Hello.” 

“I’m going to talk to you a bit, since you seem to hear everything I say. Now. I’m assuming that you did not die in the Shrieking Shack as we all thought but somehow preserved yourself. You’re not completely here, obviously, or I’d see you. So you must be somewhere else. I can’t work to get you back until I know where you are and how you got there. And I’m hoping that then you’ll tell me the whole story, because it’s fascinating, really.”

_pr-hps ltr._

“Yes, of course, later. Sorry. When I see you next. In person, I mean.” Strangely, Hermione was more afraid of the scary Professor Snape than she had been of the imaginary malign being inside a mirror. She expected a cutting remark at every turn.

_r-e-a-d_

_it._  
  
“You’re fading. Is there anything I can do to help you speak?”  
_  
s-a-y._

_my_

_n-a-me._

“Just - Severus Snape? Professor Severus Snape. Severus - “

She rose and wrestled down a heavy book of photographic plates.

“See? _Headmasters of Hogwarts, a Pictorial Gallery._ ” She paged through the volume.

“Here we are, ‘Severus _Tobias_ Snape, under-celebrated hero-spy of the Death Eater Period. Snape was instrumental in defeating Voldemort, playing a double game of spy-counter-spy that enabled Harry Potter to gain the necessary ground before the final battle.” That’s you - Severus Tobias Snape.” 

She continued in sing-song.

“Severus Tobias Snape, friend of Dumbledore, protector of Harry Potter, Order of Merlin, hero to generations of Hogwarts students. Severus Snape.”

_Aaahh._

“Did you - did you just say ‘aah?’”  
_  
Y._

She giggled. 

“So that’s helping?”  
__  
Y. Saw yestdy whn  
you spke of me I  
felt strongr  
  
“Professor Snape. Severus Snape. Can you tell me where you are?”

_Stll v tiring. Read articl._

“Okay, Professor Snape. I’ll look at it now. Er - can you see me?”

_Y._

Hermione somewhat self-consciously pulled _Issues in Contemporary Chronomancy_ over, along with her toast, and examined the titles on the cover. 

She doubted that the paper on anemia and Time Turners was recommended to her attention. Possibly the piece on time manipulation through magical objects? She examined the Table of Contents. 

“Memory and Time: The Theory and Practice of Pensieve Use in Time Travel....................................................................................57”

She turned to page 57 and skimmed the abstract. The writer, a Chronomancer at Salem School, believed that under certain conditions a pensieve could serve as a time window, a sort of portkey to another time. Dealing, as they did, with memory, all pensieves were located at a thinning of the membrane dividing past from present. With enough power and enough intention, it was theoretically possible to use a pensieve to pass completely through the membrane into the past.

When she had finished reading the paper, she looked up and saw that she had eaten the toast as well.

“This is it, then.” she said, addressing the mirror. “You did it through the pensieve. The memories you gave Harry contained hidden content. You had Harry pour you into the pensieve and now you are - where are you, I wonder?”

The scratchings on the glass were small again. She had to put her face a few inches away and cast _Lumos_ to read: _1860._

She drew a sharp breath.

“1860,” Hermione said. “Severus Tobias Snape. I suppose it was important to avoid meeting yourself?”

_obvisly. or ancstrs._

“But your body? Are you -” This was embarrassing. “The same?”

_Y. som dark mgic,_

_im afrd_

“You had a way? A plan?”

_too long. mst rest._

“All right. I think I know what to do. A first step. You, ah - take a rest? Or something? I’ll see you soon.”

_Y._

In fact, she did not return that day. It was Hogsmeade Saturday and she had committed to wandering the streets of the little village, producing a dampening effect on overly high spirits. She rather liked these days, being away from the castle, watching shoppers and having a cup of tea somewhere else than her work table or the Great Hall. Today, though, she was distracted by the events of the morning and kept turning them over in her mind. There were several ways she could imagine he had done it, and she itched to get to the library for some research.

Her further plan involved Rose, but Rose somehow managed to stay out of her mother’s sight for the entire day.

~oo00oo~

“Mum, I’d really rather be revising. Honestly, that’s what I had in mind for this afternoon,” said Rose as Hermione ushered her through the door. “I don’t get it; every day you kick us out of here and suddenly you want me to come in and socialize.”

“I just - I felt that I had done Professor Snape an injustice, the other day,” said Hermione. “I - dismissed him. He wasn’t a disagreeable man. All right - “ she glanced guiltily at the glass, “to be honest, he was a disagreeable man, but he was more than that. And we were too young to understand. I want to - talk more about him.”

 

“This couldn’t wait?” Rose said suspiciously.

“I can’t explain it all now,” said Hermione, reaching into a drawer and removing a box from Honeydukes.“ But I want you to interview me. Ask me about Professor Snape.”

“Is that _fudge_?” asked Rose.

“Would you like a cup of tea with it?”

“I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done with my mother,” said Rose, “but I’m on board.”

Hermione set several small pieces of fudge on a plate and tapped the kettle with her wand.

Wandering over to the Museum, Rose picked up a small silver ladle, hefting it reflectively in her hand.

“So, why didn’t you know?” she asked. “Why didn’t you trust him?”

“I guess we made a common mistake,” Hermione answered. “We assumed that people who make you feel good are good people and that people who make you feel bad aren’t. It’s often true, but not exclusively so. If we had known more about Professor Snape, about his past and his troubles, we might have been more understanding. Perhaps.”

“What were his troubles?” Rose nibbled on a piece of fudge.

“I think his home life was very sad and lonely, growing up. You know that Uncle Harry’s mother was a childhood friend of Professor Snape - “

“Mm.” Rose took another piece of fudge, watching her mother for signs of imminent fudge-removal.

“ - well, because of that, he was given some of Professor Snape’s memories - to put in a pensieve, you know - and it was clear from those that he was quite neglected and maybe even unloved.” The thought of this caused Hermione to tenderly brush a crumb of chocolate from the corner of Rose’s mouth. 

“What was he like,” Rose asked dreamily, “besides mean? Because no one has just one characteristic.”

“Well,” Hermione said, “he was strict. I think he was strict with himself as well as with us. He had high standards. He expected us to do our best, although we disappointed him. He was funny, sometimes, but we didn’t notice; it was a kind of deadpan humor that we missed, so I guess he was joking to himself. He wore black every day, and he had a way of swirling his cloak when he came into the room that demanded attention. You know, he wasn’t a handsome man, not at all, but he had a certain presence.”

“Was he tall?”

“Was he tall,” Hermione mused, “I thought he was tall, but now - no, he was average. And very thin. He wore his hair long, past his collar, and it was always dirty-looking and stringy.

“He was very, very smart. He never bluffed in class, not like some teachers I could name; he knew a lot more than he taught us. I wanted him to see the same in me, but I don’t think he cared.”

“Tell me a story about him,” Rose said, “Something he did once.”

“Oh, uh, hm. Well, he caught your father and Uncle Harry out of bed one night, way over here, near the dungeons. We used to say he was a vampire because he patrolled the halls at night, but I don’t think we really believed it.”

“No, something more interesting,” Rose insisted.

“Here’s something. It’s funny,” Hermione mused, “I haven’t thought about this since. It was at dinner and he was seated next to Professor Dumbledore. I just happened to look up, and Professor Snape was laughing. It was so strange, because I’d never even seen him smile. It changed his whole face. And it struck me that he had a friend, that he was friends with Professor Dumbledore, and - you know, children are very self-centered, but not you, of course, Rosy - for the first time I realized that our teachers were actually people, with their own lives.”

Hermione was silent for a moment, remembering.

“What about his, you know, personal life?”

“Hm. We didn’t know anything about it. People gossiped, like we did about all the professors, but he was even more private than most. I think he had stomach problems; he always sat at the head table picking at his food and not eating.”

“He wasn’t married, right?”

“Yes.”

“Girlfriend?”

Hermione smiled at the idea of applying a concept like “girlfriend” to Professor Snape.

“No, he -” she paused, considering. Well, Rose was a sensible girl of sixteen. “He was very close to Uncle Harry’s mother at one time, and I believed that he would have liked her to be his girlfriend, but it didn’t happen.”

“Poor Professor Snape,” said Rose.

“Oh, I don’t think he’d care for your pity,” said Hermione. “He was extremely proud.”

“It’s not pity,” said Rose. “Unrequited love could happen to anyone. I just feel bad for him that he didn’t live long enough to find a new love.”

“Mm.”

“And, he would have deserved a great love, don’t you think? After working so long and without credit to defeat Voldemort? It would have been a just reward.

“I can imagine him after the final battle, that Uncle Harry won, you know, because of everyone who helped him, coming back to Hogwarts and meeting a beautiful young flying instructor and feeling an instant attraction that he was free to follow, now that Voldemort was dead. And she would understand how sad his life had been and see through the meanness and strictness to the person he was inside. With another chance at love, he could be the person he was meant to be.

“Don’t you think that would make a good story?” Rose continued.

“He wasn’t really the romantic hero type, Rose. It’s hard to imagine.”

Rose made a sad face at her.

“But all right, it would be a great story. I wish that _was_ the story. But more than that, I wish we could have shown him our gratitude. If I had a way, I certainly would.” She gave the mirror a meaningful look.

Rose had finished the plate of fudge and peered hopefully at the Honeydukes box.

“No, I think that’s enough candy for you,” Hermione said. “Go and brush your teeth before you study.”

“Will do,” said Rose, hopping off the stool. “This was interesting, Mum. I’ll see you later.”

“Come back tomorrow and I’ll show you Professor Snape’s picture in a book, okay?”

As soon as Rose had left, Hermione approached the looking glass.

“Professor Snape, did that help?”

Very much so. You may call me Severus.

“Please call me Hermione. Can you tell me why you’ve been able to contact me, and not Professor Slughorn or Professor Antimony?”

_Tried before but no success_

_Something different now_  
on  
your side 

“What is it, do you think?”

_Intelligence_

_Imagination_

The writing appeared faster now, a scraggly scrawl. She felt it as being _on the opposite side of the glass_ , as if Severus were standing right there, scratching with a stylus. With a dizzying lurch in the pit of her stomach she imagined him physically - a warm body, a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip, the muscles and sinews and bone and the scent of him, an actual man.

_Devotion_

The preceding Potions Masters had been rather trifling, Hermione thought.

“So it matters who and what is here, on this side. That will be important, don’t you think?”

_MOTHER LOVE_

“I thought so. I thought it might be mother love. And remembering you.” She pictured that moment in the Great Hall when she saw him laughing.

_M.L. worked for Potter. For me at a remove?_

_Always had my nose pressed against the glass_

Hermione found herself leaning her head against the frame, eyes closed. She felt strangely wibbly. 

Without thinking, she turned so that her forehead touched the glass and opened her eyes. Black eyes looked into hers, there was a faint gasp, and then the glass was blank again.

“Was that you? I think I heard you, was that you?”

_Y._

“I could see you. I saw your eyes. You were looking at me.”

_Shocking for you. Sorry._

“No, no, I was only surprised. Why did that happen? Maybe we can use it.”

_Unsure. I was thinking of you._

“I was thinking of you, too.”

_How sweet._

“Don’t be sarcastic, Severus. It doesn’t suit a person who lives in a looking glass.”

_I do not live in a glass. I am standing before a glass in my pharmacy. I have a small pipe of tobacco in my hand and I am wearing an embroidered waistcoat._

“Oh!” The most surprising thing was the outfit. “I don’t think of you as an embroidered waistcoat sort of person.”

_Black damask with black embroidery  
Elegant_

“And I suppose you are wearing a black frock coat and trousers and black buttoned boots?” 

_Trousers not matching_  
Charcoal grey wool  
rather fine 

“You sound lovely.”

_Oh yes terribly lovely  
all my lady customers are in love with me_

Hermione laughed.

“I’m wearing - oh, I forgot, you can see me. I’m wearing teaching robes, as you see, and these practical flats and - I know, it’s so Mugglish of me, but a wristwatch.”

_Hair barrette_

“Yes, right, the bushy-hair-taming tortoiseshell barrette.”

_I remember your hair  
Glad you did not cut it_

“It’s - a mess, really. I _should_ cut it.”

_NO  
Its singular_

Hermione suddenly wondered if the lady customers really were in love with Severus. And blushed.

“So you built this pharmacy business yourself?” she asked.

_I bought out the previous owner, with money easily + honestly made if you are a wizard among Muggles. My pharmacy is in New York City._

“Oh, I thought - I assumed that you were in Britain.”

_Safer here. 3000 miles is greater than 160 years to you?_

“No. I’m just surprised. The time is a greater distance, metaphorically speaking. 

“Severus, can you explain how it makes you stronger if we speak of you? You are running a business and walking around in 1860, so you must be strong enough for that.”

_When I come to the glass_  
it takes great effort to write  
th longr I stand here, tirdr I get  
evn jst wtchng u 

“It’s something to do with the thinning of the membrane, then. When you approach the glass, it’s like a pensieve. The two glasses are connected and your 1860 body resists being sucked through, because it belongs to 1860.

_Plausibl_

“Perhaps remembering and speaking of you builds more of you here. Maybe then your body doesn’t feel it to be so alien.

_Again plausibl_

_conectng th magicl glsses ws vry dfficlt  
Left yrs for th purpse 1998_

Hermione touched the chipped gilt of the frame. 

“You hoped the pensieve spell would work, and you left my glass here, on the chance that you could make a connection?

_knew f ths one. Hopd to lcate it._

“Severus, are you getting tired? Severus Snape, Severus Snape, Potions Master, of the black coat and the long hair and the gimlet eyes.”

_I do not have gimlet eyes. You heard me jst now?_

“Yes. When our eyes met, you made a sound.”

_It_

_I saw you see me._

_Surprised me_

“It tore a hole in the membrane, for an instant, when we saw each other. That’s why I could hear you. It must have to go both ways to make a tear. But why did we see each other? We can’t do now.”

_Imagination._

“Because we were imagining each other.”

_Y._

“Thinking about each other is imagining each other.”

_Y  
I think so._

“Severus, I have to take a break now. It’s - lunchtime and I’m starving. I’ll come back later, in the evening.”

_As you wish._

In fact, Hermione needed to get away and settle herself, for she was having some disturbing realizations about the nature of the rescue operation. She had not been outside the castle in several days, and the weather was fine, so she put on her walking boots and cloak and set out for a brisk wander on the moors. 

Spring was around the corner, but it was still cold. The wind whipped tears from her eyes and flung them into the air. It caught her hair - the hair Severus called “singular” - out of its bonds and tugged it into flags. She put her hood up and took a worn track through the scrub toward a distant copse of trees. The sky was a huge bowl of blue light above and around her.

Hermione was inexperienced in love, she recognized. Or rather, her experience had depth but not breadth; she had loved Ron and then, over time, she had stopped loving Ron and that was all she knew firsthand of love. So how could she guess if a nearly-invisible person from her past, with whom she had been reacquainted for three days, could legitimately inspire desire and tenderness? Was it only that he needed her help, like a puppy in the pound? Or was it just loneliness on her part, that might latch on to anyone? 

It seemed absurd to have a crush on her teacher at this late hour.

She climbed the hill to the trees and stopped at the top to catch her breath. From here she could see the whole castle and the expanse of scrub and dwarf pine that she had crossed. 

Inside the grove was slightly warmer, out of the wind. She put her back against a tree and wrapped the cloak around her, sitting on the soft needles to think. 

Severus grew stronger as she built an internal image of him out of memory and experience. They had made Rose the same way, starting before birth when she was an imaginary baby that they already loved. The first time Hermione had held her, still red and roughed-up from the birth, her daughter had seemed simultaneously a complete person and merely a potential person, depending on them utterly to complete her birth and become a human being.

In the same way, if she kept enlarging the space Severus inhabited in her, she ran the risk of loving and owning him the way she did Rose. If mutual love were the force required to bring him through and they weren’t suited to each other, it could become a disaster.

Hermione’s mother had liked to read the advice columns in the newspapers, and she sometimes summarized them to Hermione at the breakfast table. Certainly a staple of romantic advice had been to take it slow and get to know the person well before making a commitment. She supposed that even under these somewhat unusual circumstances this advice might hold. If love was the unavoidable requirement for bringing Severus back, she would take her time with it, and perhaps, if another force could be found, it might prove better for them both in the end.

It was too cold to stay still for long. Hermione pushed off from the tree and headed out to walk herself tired.

~oo00oo~

“I’ve gotten some books on chronomancy and pensieves, Severus,” she said, lighting the lamps. It was odd to address him, not knowing if he was there.

After a pause, he began to write.

_Recnt? I don’t suppose you cd read thm all to me?_

“No, not all, but perhaps you might trust me to find important information and share it with you?”

_Must make do w/ that._

“I appreciate your confidence.”

~oo00oo~

Hermione had a stack of parchments to grade. At times she had felt a bit lonely in the Potions office, but knowing that Severus was on the other side of the glass, formulating tablets, doling out leeches and tinctures and dispensing medical advice, gave her a companionable feeling. 

“I wonder if the Empathy Potion I’ve set them with the Conweed Pod is really better than Wit-Sharpening. I thought they’d appreciate the opportunity to experience a potion with direct emotional effects because most of them are not really independent thinkers. But it would be wrong of me to sell them short. If I had time, I’d like to offer an Advanced Potions Theory seminar by invitation; there are a few Seventh-Years who could benefit.”

She wrote a brief note in red ink and deposited a parchment on the stack with a small sigh. She glanced up to the glass.

_Dont worry about underestimating -  
Almost impossible _

 

“But you have an obligation, don’t you think, to help each child reach his potential? Not to become jaded, but to see the possibilities in each one?”

_Ah the idealism of youth_

_They’ll grind  
it out of you_

 

“I might have some idealism left, but it’s not a byproduct of youth. I’m forty years old.”

_I am 60_  
an old man  
or else negative 100  
from going backward 

“Oh, stop,” Hermione said mildly, “You’re not an old man. You have plenty of mileage left in you. I’m eager to see what you will do next.”

_Customer._

“All right, see you in a bit.” She marked “ Exceeds expectations” on a parchment with satisfaction and placed it on the stack.

A week later Hermione had transfigured a stool into a soft chair for more comfortable reading, and was ensconced there in the hour before dinner. Severus was not around - not around his looking glass, she amended. She guessed he was at The Pearl, where he ate most of his meals. She had gotten all the pensieve and chronomancy literature available from the school library and Flourish and Blotts, with five more on order from the bookstore, but she knew she was only being thorough; any breakthroughs would come from their own thinking. She also noticed that she had not informed the Headmaster, or anyone else, of her activities; she wanted to keep Severus to herself a little longer.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come on in,” she called. It was Rose.

“Hey, Mum, there’s a problem in my House - Ooo! Look at this!” Rose took in the armchair, the side table stacked with books, the footstool and the new tea set on the work table.

“Are you moving in here?” Rose blurted. “It looks like a sitting room.”

“Uh, no.” Hermione found herself at a loss and fell silent.

Rose stepped back and gave her mother an appraising look. She examined the tea set, with its elegant gold and black stripe. Hermione had set out two cups in their saucers because it looked better that way, or, well, the truth is, she was playing at tea with Severus, wasn’t she?

Rose looked pointedly at the cups and back at Hermione.

“What’s the problem in your House, dear?” Hermione asked.

“Well,” Rose nudged her mother’s feet off the hassock and sat down. “Lauren Williston and Peony Longbottom are Fifth Years and they have always had the love seat by the fireplace since they came to Hogwarts. It’s just - it’s the only seat that belongs to anyone, and they always have it. Nobody cares about it anyway; it’s not that comfortable. Then Rob Robertson began taking it away from them.”

It was a case of one bully and his group picking on a pair of vulnerable girls, and Hermione had a good idea of how to advise her daughter: make common purpose with the girls and invite others to support them when there was safety in numbers.

“D’you really think that will work?” Rose asked. 

“I don’t know, but it’s the best I can come up with. Try it and let me know.”

“Thanks. You’re really smart, Mum.”

“I was sixteen once,” said Hermione, “and I’ve had lots of time to reflect on it.”

“Hey, Mum,” said Rose, taking an interest in a loose thread on her robe, “I just want you to know that - well, Hugo isn’t mature enough to say so, but if you ever, you know, liked someone, it would be okay. I mean, no matter how short or unusual. We could get used to it. We want you to be happy, and Dad, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Rosy, but thank you. Now run along and let me get back to my research. I’ll see you at dinner.”

_Fr all the world I wd not be 16 agan_

_wht was she going on abt?_

 

“She saw that I had set out two cups and she thought I was entertaining Filius down here in my newly refurbished sitting room.”

_FLITWICK? Yr joking_

“He’s a very nice man, Severus, and extremely knowledgeable. But I’m afraid I set out the cup for you.”

_f only! Ar you losing yr mind_

“No, I was wishing.”

_That’s flattering_  
I must say  
and you must be losing yr mind 

“Well,” she said, settling back into her chair, “this is pleasant, too. We might just go on like this, friends separated by glass.”

_Id like_

_Id like_

_Rather an impediment to some things I’d like to try._

She pretended not to understand and took up her book.

 

~oo00oo~

 

Hermione had propped open _Headmasters of Hogwarts_ on the book shelf. She liked to look up and see Severus’ portrait, which she did sometimes while they were chatting. It seemed to make him stronger, as well.

She was mixing a batch of Pepper-Up for the dispensary on a Saturday morning, something she had done so often that it took very little thought. She hummed as she worked.

“I’m not sure if you’re up,” she said amiably. “New York being five hours earlier, I’d guess the shop isn’t open yet.”

No answer appeared on the glass, but Hermione was so used to speaking like this that she went on, her hands moving of their own accord, gently squeezing the moisture from morning glory flowers into a flask.

“So we know that you get stronger when I hold you in my mind. I wonder if it works even now. If I think of you right now, in a very detailed way, could you get it while you sleep? For instance, if I remember the day I thought you were jinxing Harry’s broom at a Quidditch game. You were wearing a lot of warm clothes, wool pants, a coat and a cape over that, and boots, and you were wrapped up in a scarf. I think it was Slytherin colors, too. 

“Now that I recall, the tip of your nose was red and I think it was running a bit. And you had your hands curled up inside the cape, so I didn’t see if you had gloves on, or mittens. Maybe you had come barehanded and were keeping them warm that way.

“Why didn’t you ever wear a hat? You looked cold. 

“It’s funny, because then I considered you our enemy, but now, of course, I know better. So when I look at my memory, I see you as a friend, with my adult knowledge, and I worry that you were getting chilled. But I also see with my child’s eyes. I’m both.

“It’s funny about memory and time. Things become layered.”

She Vanished the used-up flowers and pulled over a box of common moth wings. She had taken to using Severus’ knife for this kind of work because it was so well-balanced and kept its edge. The wings had to be minced very fine so she concentrated on this.

“How did you move those things around, I wonder? How did you put your knife on the table and shift the chronomancy journal? I must ask you some time.”

“It was done in a dream,” Severus said.

“Like a lucid dream? You had to dream first, and then you projected your astral being into the office?”

“Exactly. It took months of planning. And I had barely the substance. Moving that button took me an hour,” he said. “Not to mention throwing that pod into your eye.”

She smiled at his dedication, glancing at the glass. 

Then she realized.

“Severus, did you speak?”

“Can you hear me?” He sounded close, as if he were standing right behind her. 

“Yes! I can hear you. Where are you? I can hear you!”

“I am in the pharmacy, standing by the glass. I am watching you mince moth wings. I was just asleep but awoke filled with energy and decided to come to work in the dark. Have you - were you - “ He stopped. “Did you -”

“I called you. Yes. I imagined you and you came.”

There was a long pause.

“Thank you.”

She nodded, her throat tight.

“All right,” she said, not knowing what she meant.

“I have to tell you something, and then you may not want to speak to me any more,” he said.

“No, of course not.”

“You are very sure of your loyalties, but perhaps you should be more discerning.”

“Of course I won’t desert you,” she said.

“Not so quickly, please. There is something unpleasant you should know. You must have suspected it.”

“No, I didn’t,” she pleaded. “I didn’t. All right. Yes, I did.”

“My way here was paid with blood. I told you there was Dark Magic involved. It was used not just in reconstituting my body in a different century, but in making my way through the membrane. The blood was my own. You may remember,” he said dryly, “that there were copious amounts of it. Due to my foresight, none of that went to waste.”

“There must be a better way to get you back,” Hermione said.

“I fear not. Blood was the passage out and must buy the passage back. I - I thought I could find another way. I’ve gotten so close, but I can’t see it, Hermione. I trust no wizarding folk here to pour me into a pensieve, if I could even survive the trick a second time. You have no idea what the first year was like; I was hardly alive, like a wounded creature crawling from a battlefield.”

“My blood, then. We can use mine,” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would not permit such a sacrifice. I have enough innocent blood on my hands to last a lifetime. Anyway, it would kill you and make the whole effort pointl -- Anyway, it would kill you.”

“There’s got to be a way,” said Hermione. “If you want to come back, I’m not leaving you there! We left you once, and I’ll be damned - I’m going to do some more research.”

She put down her knife and walked to the glass. 

“I’m thinking of you,” she said softly. What had she done before, that time? She touched her forehead to the glass, then opened her eyes.

There he was. His eyes were surrounded by wrinkles now, and the hair at his temples was grey. There was the same great beak of a nose, the lines from nose to mouth carved even deeper, but the bitter mouth that had turned down in dislike or disdain - that was different, quirked up now with tender humor. He recognized that she saw him and smiled outright, displaying a set of stubbornly crooked yellow teeth. Hermione smiled back and pressed her hand to the glass. His came up to meet it.

“The years in New York,” she said, “I can see. They’ve been good for you.”

“Of course, I don’t care to admit it. But yes. I’ve been useful.”

“Severus, we’ll find a way. You’re almost here. We’ll find it.”

“I fear not, Hermione. But - I’m glad -“ He looked down and shook his head slightly.

“I know,” she said.

~oo00oo~

Hermione sat up in the middle of the night and scrabbled for her wand. She’d been dreaming of the Eucharist, of the chalice raised by the priest. As it reached its apogee, a light flashed from the gold and she heard a word: transubstantiation.

She transfigured her water glass into a pencil, and, uncaring of school property in her excitement, wrote the word on the wall.

Then, strangely, she lay down and fell peacefully into a dreamless sleep.

~oo00oo~

Being together was easier now that both of them could speak and hear. They could see each other if Hermione touched the glass, but this impeded their progress significantly, so they spent little time on it.

Severus had a beautiful voice and when he was not busy in the shop and she could be in the Potions office, he sat by the looking glass in his back room and talked with her. She didn’t want to know about his life during the war, and he didn’t want to hear about her marriage, but there were interesting issues to explore in the field of Potions, and she told him about her childhood and sometimes, when he was feeling strong, he told her about his. He was curious about her children, or rather, about her experiences with them. Naturally, they discussed the plan, anticipating every possible mishap, designing experiments then tearing them apart and remaking them.

It would still be Dark Magic, that was clear, even though transubstantiation was not Dark itself. And the work of transubstantiation was difficult and uncertain; there would be trials of increasing complexity. Making magical use of the unwitting religious magic of Muggles was illegal, although the Ministry did not track or pursue it. Now Hermione understood why she had kept the entire matter secret; no one in a position of authority would countenance what they were going to try. Hermione was putting her position at risk, possibly her entire career, and Severus at times felt impelled to dissuade her. 

In Knockturn Alley, Hermione acquired a chalice, recently used in the Eucharist. Late on a Wednesday, she sat with a small glass of pinot noir on the work table, sipping and polishing the gold surface. Severus had his own glass of wine, and she could tell when he took a drink by the pause.

“My parents are C of E, you know, Severus. They mustn’t ever know about this.” She put aside the polishing cloth and began casting Discernment spells, searching for whatever magic might be inherent in the object itself.

He grunted in reply.

“Yes, but I do feel bad about it. This is most certainly sacrilege.”

“If people will believe silly things, they deserve to have them trampled on,” he answered.

“Christian beliefs have brought comfort and encouragement to millions of people,” she said calmly. “And Christianity has inspired acts of extreme bravery and conviction.”

“Two words: the Crusades,” he said.

“Well, all belief systems can be used as weapons to harm others,” she said. 

There was a brief silence.

“As I well know,” he said, with a hint of strain.

Hermione smiled in the direction of the glass. 

“There’s so much to forgive in the past,” she said. “Let’s not think about it too much. I will try not to be an insufferable little know-it-all, and you try not to be -”

“A greasy old bat,” he said. “Or a bully, or a bad-tempered churl.”

“Indeed,” she said. 

There was no magic at all in the chalice. 

“It’s just a cup,” she told Severus. “We might as well use a coffee mug or a mayonnaise jar.”

“For our needs, a bathtub might be better,” he said.

“I’m sure it wasn’t that much,” Hermione answered. “Blood always looks more when you’ve bled on something. Maybe a washtub.”

“It’s to our advantage, then. It would be hard to find an actual chalice the size of a washtub.”

“Do giants have a church, I wonder. I’ve never thought about it.”

“They do not. They are pagans and earth worshippers, those who bother at all. They probably dance around a mound in the moonlight.”

“What is your source for that?” Hermione asked.

“I read it long ago, let me see. The book was called something like _Myths and Magic Among Non-Human Sentient Beings._ That sounds rather dull. I’m sure it had a better title, but it was a well-regarded book.”

“You’re not just making that up to impress me?”

“I resent your implication,” Severus said, without rancor. “Hold on, there’s a delivery at the door.”

~oo00oo~

Systematic inquiry with assorted liquids under differing conditions convinced them that transubstantiation was a form of symbolic transfiguration. The sticking point had been how to test for success, since wine - which turned out to be the optimal liquid, with strong tea a close second - when transfigured was physically indistinguishable from its original form. Hermione solved this with a cage of imported, highly sensitive vampire bats, who eagerly lapped up the wine when transfigured but ignored it otherwise. 

The bats had elicited quite a bit of interest and speculation in her students. Hermione had told them vaguely that they were for a special project in an upcoming class, but Rose had been visibly sceptical and had questioned Hermione in detail. 

On this night Hermione was feeding them, releasing a large, complacent rat into the cage, as she and Severus debated their results. 

“I wish I could test it further,” she said, “but I can’t think of how. I wonder if a transfusion -”

“Absolutely not. And you know perfectly well in what way this is blood - only in an essential, spiritual way, as a Muggle pound note is a loaf of bread or a certain amount of work.”

“You’re right,” Hermione said. “It just makes me uneasy, to go into it with so little testing, so little certainty.”

“Think of how I feel. I might be splinched, I might be stuck, I might end up who-knows-when or perhaps, mercifully, killed.”

“Do you think we’re putting it off? We keep talking about it, looking for flaws in the design. We could have done it two days ago, but - “

“We keep talking about it,” he said.

“We need to screw our courage to the sticking point,” Hermione said.

“Tomorrow, then.”

Hermione walked to the glass and put her hand on it. He was sitting on a stool with the back room shelves behind him. He had been compounding tablets and still wore a canvas apron over his shirtsleeves; for an instant before he looked up she caught an expression of bleak resignation, then he saw that she saw.

“It’s a bad night,” he said. “It’s not the plan. I suppose - I’ve been thinking about the possibility of death.”

“This will work,” she said. “We’ve thought of everything.”

“A moment ago you were uneasy about not having further confirmation.”

“That was a luxury, talking like that.”

“It’s all right. You must know that for many years I wished to die. I only stayed alive to finish what I did for Lily; I only set up the chronomancy spell to spite the Dark Lord. Once I found myself here, I hardly knew what to do, but I made a regular life and in time I found satisfaction in it.

“Now that I think I might get my old wish and die _in media res_ , as it were, I find myself surprisingly unwilling.”

“You are not going to die,” Hermione said fiercely. “I will not let you. I was the brightest witch of my year, and this is my plan.”

The next day at dinner, Hermione looked out at Rose, sitting with the Ravenclaws and debating some point of magical practice , and Hugo, who unfortunately seemed to be boasting to some of his young Gryffindor peers. Certainly nothing would go wrong with the plan, but it was untried. Occasionally, original spells backfired, especially Dark ones. Severus would be the most likely victim, but that was not absolutely sure.

She had to be honest. For all her pickyness, if something happened to her, they would be fine with Ron. He could raise them, and they would continue to be just the people they were now. But - Oh - Rose and Hugo. It was terrible to think of not being with them, for any reason.

As they left the Great Hall, Rose came and laid a hand on her arm. 

“Everything all right, Mum?”

“Of course, darling. I’m going to mark some more parchments before bed.”

Until now Rose had been at pains to downplay her relationship with Professor Granger. It was not a secret, but she seemed to hope it would stay out of general awareness. Now, driven by some unconscious intuition, Rose hugged her, right there in the corridor. 

Rose’s cheek was like her namesake’s petal, exquisitely soft, and her wild, fluffy curls tickled Hermione’s nose. They smiled and looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Rose nodded, satisfied, and took off for her common room.

They cast the spell that night.

It was an ordinary washtub of wooden staves, banded in iron. Hermione set it on the floor of the office and wiped out the interior with a cloth. On the work table were eight bottles of first-rate cabernet sauvignon, and on the shelf, eight spares. There would not be time to test the transfigured wine, but they had used this vintage in their trials. 

“Did you put the letter where they will find it?” she asked. Severus had left the pharmacy to his landlady and her two small children; a letter in his rooms would direct them to his lawyer. 

“On the bed.”

“You’ve got your things?”

“Just my watch and my wand,” he answered. Severus had lived mainly under Muggle guise in hopes of avoiding entanglements that might affect Wizarding history, and his wand had been very difficult to secure. Because they intended to bring Severus through intact, they hoped it might travel with him.

Hermione casually set out some things from the Museum - a silver ladle, the small knife, a mortar and pestle. She took a horn-handled corkscrew and began opening bottles.

“I feel as if I’m preparing for a party,” she said with brittle cheer.

“I dislike parties.”

“All right then, we’ll use this wine for chronomancy.”

“That will do,” he said.

“You should start,” she said. There were incantations on his side of the glass as well as hers, some preparations of the body that were Dark. He had fasted since the morning before. Runes of protection and surrender were marked on his torso with ink of cremation ash and rendered animal fat. Small boxes of protective charms were bound to his upper arms with leather strips.

The last bottle was open and she laid down the corkscrew.

“Come see me first,” he said. “Hermione.”

She laid her forehead against the glass and opened her eyes. They were only inches apart, only inches and 160 years, and he gazed at her with an unreadable expression.

“Severus,” she whispered.

“You can see me,” he said.

“Of course I can,” she said.

“I just like to know.”

“Well, then, I’ll see you soon in person,” she said briskly, turning away.

She heard the quiet rustling as he removed his shirt and shoes and checked the runes, then the low murmur of his incantations. She knew he had his wand raised and in his other hand, an amulet of human bone and hair. Hermione emptied the bottles one at a time into the tub, crouching so they wouldn’t splash, and began the transfiguration spell that made the first step of Severus’ journey.

A symbolic transfiguration was different in several ways from the simpler, more literal transfiguration spell. Turning a teacup to a toad required one to hold in mind the vision of a toad, as if looking at a picture on a card, but the more advanced spell required a witch to contemplate the multiple subtle and complex meanings of the target object. As she spoke the incantations, Hermione concentrated on blood as a sacrificial offering, as key to life, accompaniment to birth and harbinger of death. In the back of her mind she let play bloody scenes of her past: Hugo at birth, red-haired and red-smeared; a boy in her primary school who ran through a glass door; her first period and its obscure sense of accomplishment. Blood, rich and thick; arterially bright or venous dark; metallic-tasting from a cut lip; spilled on the street, on the sheets, on the stone flags of the Great Hall.

Her incantations continued, interwoven with Severus’ deep voice, and an increasing tension filled the room, like a pressure front blowing in. The hairs on her arms stood up and her wand began to thrum. She kept her eyes on the tub and her mind on blood and her voice on the spell with all the authority she had. 

The atmosphere in the room thickened until Hermione sucked the air into her lungs with deliberate force. Severus finished the directive words of his spell and began a wordless chant of appeal toward the thinning of the membrane. 

Hermione felt as if she might scream. As she spoke the final words of the spell, Severus gave a cry.

The looking glass blew into the room, showering it with splinters.

In the tub of blood, something white appeared, a shapeless mound, and began to rise, streaming with viscous liquid. As it came higher, it formed a back, the knobs of spine visible, the curled neck, the black, wet hair hanging loose. He raised his head and cast her a desperate look. His shoulders rose from the dark pool, and one hand. His chest was free.

The spell was complete. Now she had to wait for him to struggle through, and so she stood, wand gripped tightly, slivers of glass crunching underfoot.

With a spasm like a caterpillar writhing free of its case, Severus brought his head higher and rose almost to his waist, but this movement seemed to take the last of his strength. He began to collapse and sink back into the pool with a groan. 

“No!” Hermione screamed, snatching up the small knife. In one movement she stepped forward and slashed her arm from elbow to wrist, casting an arc of blood over Severus and the tub. Frantically, she exed her palm and shook the stream of blood onto his head.

“Come on, come on,” she begged. “Severus, Severus.”

The descent stopped. Severus gave another heave and rose to his waist, freeing his hands. Hermione threw her arms over him, letting the blood run in a curtain down his back. Another great spasm brought his arms around her. She hadn’t the height, but she gripped him tightly, calling his name, as he thrashed upward until he cleared the lip of the tub. Together they wrestled him out and onto the floor.

“Are you insane - what did you do -” he panted. He had brought his wand through and began to cast a healing spell immediately, still tangled with her in a pool of blood.

“It doesn’t hurt,” said Hermione, laughing and crying, “It doesn’t hurt yet. Don’t worry.” She held on to him, smearing him with more blood.

“ _Accio_ dittany.” Severus raised his hand, confident that Hermione would have it nearby. The small vial smacked into his palm.

“Put out your arm,” he commanded, “Foolish woman. You might have permanently disabled yourself.” As he shook the dittany into her wound, the stinging began and she cried in earnest, deep sobs that released the tension of the evening and shook her whole body.

“There - all right - it’s closing.” Severus managed to cap the vial then paused uncertainly before carefully putting his arms around her and drawing her with him back to the floor.

“It hurts,” Hermione sobbed.

“Of course. What did you expect? And thank you. Thank you.”

Hermione sobbed two more times, gave a resonant snort and stopped. For a few minutes they lay on the floor, exhausted, staring at the ceiling. They had untangled themselves until Hermione lay with her head in the crook of his elbow and he held her hand against his stomach. She noticed that his skin was cool and smooth underneath her fingers, but she lay still.

“You’re wet,” she said faintly. “Aren’t you cold?”

He raised his wand and cast a cleaning and drying spell, Vanished the glass that lay about them, then let it fall, closing his eyes. Hermione did the same and they slept. 

They slept so deeply that she didn’t know, when he stirred, if fifteen minutes had passed or two hours. She turned her head in the crook of his arm. He was staring at the ceiling again.

“Hey,” she said.

He nodded.

“How do you feel?” 

Silence.

“Remember the warning about Time Bends. You need to monitor your orientation and your mood. In fact, I’d better test you. What year is this? Who is the Minister of Magic?”

“I don’t suppose that Spinner’s End is still mine,” he said mournfully.

“Probably not,” she said. 

She sat up carefully, feeling every minute spent on the cold floor, and flexed her shoulders. 

“Here.” She offered him her hand.

He sat up, wincing. They rose carefully, stretching and checking for bruises, and found themselves standing close together. Hermione was acutely aware of his long, white torso and bony bare feet. 

He looked out over her head.

“I suppose I should report myself to the Ministry of Magic as a dangerous criminal,” he said.

“Shh, don’t be silly.”

“I left myself some money in Gringotts; that should still be available,” he said.

“You don’t need to think about that right now,” she said.

“I suppose you’d like to get on with your life,” he said stiffly, looking at the wall. “If you had something to transfigure into clothes, I could be leaving.”

“Shhh, stop that. You’re pretty cut up here,” she said, touching his ribs where he had come over the staves. 

Hermione flicked her wand at the armchair, transfiguring it to a love seat, and they wandered over and sat side-by-side, staring ahead.

“How is your arm?” he asked, turning it to examine the long, silver scar.

“It’s all right; see?” she said, flexing the fingers. He kept her wrist in his hand.

“Hermione,” he said in a low voice, and she raised her face to him.

There was no barrier between them. He gazed at her with wide-open wonder, catching her up in his black eyes. Hermione’s heart stuttered as she fell into those dark windows of need and trust and desire. She had already given herself away, she realized; there was no decision to be made.

“You brought me through,” Severus said quietly.

“And I’m going to keep you,” she answered.


End file.
